


Soundtrack Of Corruption

by MaladyOfReverie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Erotica, F/M, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Music, Loss of Identity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Anguish, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Murder, Musical References, Violence, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaladyOfReverie/pseuds/MaladyOfReverie
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock’s attempt to fake his death are unconvincing to an offended Moriarty. After the fall at Barts faces tragic interference, Sherlock’s mind is damaged and vulnerable. Tempted by and curious of the possibilities, Jim forcefully welcomes Sherlock into a musical wonderland of manipulation, drugs, sex and violence that leaves Sherlock bemused. Together they compose a game of lies and riddles, which Mycroft and John play desperately to win. But unexpectedly Jim develops new temptations, desires to which a corrupted Sherlock may choreograph his own dance.





	1. All Your Darkest Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/K0yDvd0V9wA

    -Lazarus is go-  
Sherlock swallowed deeply, reading his brother's message. He was still shaken from Moriarty's suicide, but he would be here all week if he waited for his nerves to calm.  
    Unlike Saint Lazarus from the gospel of John, his death would be quick, painless and his resurrection would be both immediate, and years ahead. He considered his final words with him for a brief moment. John, I- No. No, that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Not only was John particularly uninterested in hearing it, it was also a phrase that would make everything so much more difficult. It only took a moment to realise that. Sherlock could easily visualise the equation.  
  
    ‘How are things?’ John’s therapist would ask him.  
    ‘My... I still can’t sleep.’  
    ‘The medication I gave you isn’t helping?’  
John would shake his head, half ashamed. ‘I’m not taking it.’ That tight smile, empty of confidence.  
    ‘So you won’t sleep.’  
    ‘I-’ his hand would do that little tremor, he would lift his arm as if he wanted to hit something, ‘How am I supposed to sleep? He loved me. He was my flatmate, and I never noticed a fu- a thing. All I can do when I think of him is over-analyse everything that I ever said to him, and I am always thinking of him... he was gay, and I constantly-’  
    ‘John, you did not push Sherlock Holmes off of that building.’  
    ‘THEN WHY CAN’T I STOP FEELING LIKE I DID!?’  
  
No. That was out of the question, John was going to be damaged enough. It came like a second nature to him, to become trapped in his pain. And he was so lonely for so long, he would easily relate this to himself making Sherlock feel unrequited. Sherlock couldn’t risk him blaming himself; he was going to find enough to feel guilty about. So he decided to stop himself simply with,  
    ‘Goodbye, John.’  
He heard stress-filled breaths, followed by John softly begging him.  
    ‘No. Don’t.’  
Sherlock thought that in those pleading words, John’s voice was the most sorrowful sound he had ever heard. He couldn’t stay with him, he couldn’t comfort him, he couldn’t do anything more than prolong his suffering. He threw the phone down, heard it break behind him as it skidded across the rooftop. He took a deep breath, heard once more John scream his name, and then threw himself from Saint Bartholomew. For a moment he could hear the wind whistling in his ears, but then he realised that it must have been in his own mind, for both of his feet had not left the ledge before he heard, loud and clear behind him,  
    * _BANG_ *  
His heart stopped. He wanted to turn around, but it was too late. He had indeed jumped, and the shock of pain that ran through his leg, ripping the strength from it, was indeed a bullet. There wasn’t enough push in that jump now, and Sherlock wasn’t falling far from the windows.  
    John was trying to process everything so fast, but it was so disorganised. It all came together in a chaos of colour and noise, and an aching in his chest that was choking him like he was being buried alive. He wanted to shut his eyes as Sherlock leapt from the roof, but he couldn’t. It had seemed to him that everything was moving at a steady pace from there, before he heard that most certain sound of a gunshot. He did not know why, but the street stopped still with him. It was a gunshot! In London, for crying out loud; this isn’t Chicago, why weren’t people running!? Instead everyone in the street stopped, stared. A bicyclist came to a grinding halt behind him. He could see fear in the eyes of strangers, who’s shock expressed the feeling that they were falling themselves, as if their own hearts would stop beating the second that Sherlock’s body hit the ground.  
    ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, Sweetheart~’ Moriarty cooed despite Sherlock’s absence, running a hand along the ledge, ‘I already knew how you did it and you hadn’t even done it yet...what a disappointment.’ he looked inexpressively into the distance, before hearing the roaring storm in the street below him and smiling proudly.  
    Sherlock screamed out and tried to reach for his wounded leg, and his head smacked hard against a window ledge on his way down. It made a cracking sound that John could hear across the silent street, making him flinch. It was all so slow, agonising, and suddenly time seemed to catch up with the events that he was witnessing, and a familiar voice nearby promised an explanation. All he heard, in a voice with thicker emotion than any prayers he had ever shouted in Afghanistan, was ‘NO!’. John's blood ran cold, and he felt as if every horror he had ever experienced was woven into that noise. More haunting to his soul than any other fact, was that he hadn’t thought him capable of feeling so intensely, much less expressing it.  
    ‘SHERLOCK!  _SHERLOCK!_ ’ Mycroft ran as fast as he could out of the childrens nursery, straight past John Watson. He lost some stamina as he came around the ambulance station; not due to physical exertion, but because-  
    ‘Sherlock,’ he said, eyes wide and dampening.  
Sherlock laid, fallen on one of the benches outside Barts, the abuse visible on his body. He must have made contact with other window ledges on the way down. Mycroft couldn’t stop his mind from seeing the bruise patterns that would be underneath his clothes, discolouring his young brother’s fair skin. His mouth was agape as he watched a nurse gently roll Sherlock’s limp body, blood clinging to and dripping from the bench.  
    John’s body kept wanting to shake when he came around the ambulance station. He restrained this, he restrained himself thoroughly and completely. The first thing that he noticed was that he could see Sherlock’s eyes and they were closed, that was a good sign. Perhaps he had fallen unconscious.  
    ‘IT WAS A SIMPLE PLAN!’ Mycroft screamed as loud as he possibly could have, causing the nurse who was holding Sherlock’s arm to step back.  
    ‘ONLY YOU COULD HAVE FUCKED IT UP!’ he continued to yell at the still body, moving in a way that made John think he needed very badly to collapse, but much as John did not let a tear fall, Mycroft made his weakening legs hold firm. He turned, eyes sore red and John could see into them. In his pain they had the most merciless soul behind them; as if the posh, proper man he knew had been possessed by a demonic rage. Yet he had an intellect behind them comparable to nothing he had ever seen in Sherlock’s eyes. It looked like Satan himself had been challenged to a battle of wits, and had lost. For this he would burn the world.  
    ‘You will all be retired...personally,’ he growled inhumanly, his voice steadied by intent, ‘ALL OF YOU!’  
    Time was passing so inconsistently now. How many moments had John brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s hand before he was hurried into the hospital, Mycroft shouting the whole time? Was it minutes or hours he had stood in this spot before police cars had deluged the street and pavement, doing the same to John’s senses? How long had the sunset lasted, before an officer walked him inside, out of the cold night. Had it been Lestrade? It didn’t matter any. He was lost in Hell and couldn’t translate time, all the while he could still hear Sherlock screaming in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrical inspiration for chapter title:  
> Hell raising, hair raising  
> I'm ready for the worst  
> So frightening, face whitening  
> Fear that you can't reverse
> 
> -Panic Room, Au/Ra


	2. Did You Miss Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/VuCMsP-4Njk

Jim yawned and stretched his neck left and right before descending the steps down into Barts. Waiting not far inside the stairwell one of his own tossed some hospital apparel by him, which he swiftly slipped into. He smiled under his procedure mask as Sherlock was hurried by him, Mycroft and two other men departing, armed with guns, rushing to the stairwell. With a gleam in his eye he walked straight out the door, indulged in a glance at a devastated John Watson, and made casual haste to Cloth Fair where he met with a car, and made his escape.  
    ‘Back among the living so soon?’  
Jim smiled. ‘After being dead for, like, two whole minutes, I can assure, it’s boring as fuck,’ he said with a laugh, ‘Sherlock is going to hate it.’  
    ‘That’s what he gets for not being as smart as you.’  
    ‘Careful, Moran. That’s a blanket statement, and one that you sleep under, I am afraid.’  
Sebastian smiled. ‘Yes, Boss.’  
    The safe-house was a skip from Barts. Where better to hide than in plain sight, especially when the all-seeing-eye seeks you. Jim regarded himself a chameleon when considering Mycroft Holmes, he had a perfect picture of how that man’s mind works.  
    Sebastian slid the keys into his pocket, and closed the front door gently behind him.  
    ‘FUCK!’ Jim slammed his fists against the wall. Sebastian watched quietly, seeing the familiar look of insanity in Moriarty’s eyes. He was shaking with anger and repeatedly abusing the wall. Sebastian knew there were fewer times Jim would be more dangerous than when he was pissed at himself. Against his better judgement, he decided to say something.  
    ‘What’s wrong, Boss?’  
Jim abruptly stopped swinging his arm and turned his head up to look at him, his neck twisted into what Sebastian assumed was an uncomfortable position. But physical discomfort was worth it for the added dramatic effect.  
    ‘Moran,’ he pulled the gun from his side and pressed the barrel into Sebastian’s forehead. The cold metal was tight against his skull, but Sebastian didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes directly on Jim’s own and listened attentively. ‘One fucking guess.’  
    Sebastian contemplated. Jim tucked his lips under his teeth for a moment and tilted his head.  
    ‘Any day now.’  
Sebastian was positive he couldn’t answer correctly, so he decided not to waste the time.  
    ‘You missed?’ he asked, shrugging.  
    ‘No.’ Jim said calmly, shaking his head. He pulled the trigger and Sebastian heard the firing pin clink, followed by the relieving echo of an empty chamber.  
Jim ran his hands through his hair, ‘What kind of-of fucking guess is that? Of course I didn’t miss, didn’t you hear the noise he made? My condolences, it was something. That was my favourite part. I don’t know if it was more pain or shock, but I almost had an orgasm. Tell me you didn’t miss Iceman melting all over the street?’  
Sebastian shrugged wordlessly.  
Jim continued to walk around the small, entrance room repetitively, ‘You know, you’re like those people that leave a concert early. So worried about practicalities and saving time that you spend doing pointless, forgetful things. Sometimes I wonder if you are actually capable of having a good time.’  
    ‘Yes,’ Sebastian simply said, with a mischievous smile.  
Jim scoffed a bit looking at him, ‘Oh, Tiger. Don’t be pathetic.’  
Moriarty patted the crotch of Moran’s trousers and exited to the bedroom, where he could sit and think peacefully, just he and his mp3 player. Sebastian stared up, heard Jim fall back on the mattress upstairs; he pushed heavily down on the first step making a loud creaking sound, and then waiting a moment to hear protest...nothing. Bold, he followed Jim into the bedroom. He lay on the bed, his earphones playing a mystery that Sebastian wasn’t going to attempt discover. Jim glanced at him for a moment, and returned his eyes to the ceiling.  
    ‘May I?’ Sebastian mouthed out, before running his tongue across the relaxed bulge beneath the fabric covering Jim’s skin.  
Jim smiled and ran his hand down Sebastian’s cheek, before raising his hand and slapping it across the sniper’s face. He quickly collected himself, nodded, and left the room.  
  
_What has him all worked up?_ Sebastian thought to himself, beginning to quietly prepare himself a sandwich. He had barely situated the pieces of bread together before Jim came running down the stairs, grabbed his jacket and walked outside.  
    ‘Boss? Where are you going?’  
Moriarty ignored him and continued along.  
    ‘Jim?’  
Sebastian ran after him upon hearing the door shut. Once outside he lost him for a moment, before catching him adjusting his jacket and summoning a taxi.  
Sebastian wrapped a hand around Moriarty’s forearm. ‘Jim, what’s going on?’  
    ‘Tiger,’ he shooed Moran’s hand from him, ‘I need you to drive over to Corby’s and tell him to pack up and get out. I need the Koala Den.’  
Sebastian chuckled, ‘You can’t be serious. It’s the busy season, he’s not going to move after he spent the last month advertising.’  
    ‘Do I look like I’m not serious?’  
    ‘Boss, that’s a lot of revenue.’  
Jim frowned exaggeratedly, ‘I have investments in whore houses all over London, Moran. Corby doesn’t even have any employees, just a bunch of incompetent junkies. Where drugging wins in efficiency, it loses in quality. I don’t need him, so if he gives you trouble...’  
    ‘Fair enough. Why do you need the Koala Den? It’s just a draughty, old-’  
    ‘-WELL THEN FIX IT! It’s out of the way. It’s what I need. Find a clean...er room and just get it ready for hospice, okay?’  
Sebastian nodded. ‘Okay. Be careful.’  
Jim smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I have this covered. Tom’s going to meet me at Barts.’  
    While he watched the taxi pull away, Sebastian’s head endured a minor explosion. He had a bad feeling that he knew exactly what Jim was up to. He hoped that he intended fully to end Sherlock Holmes’ life at the Koala Den, and spread his body across London for Mycroft to find. But that isn’t exactly the definition of “Hospice”. He let go a frustrated sigh. God, he hated that junkie fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrical inspiration for the chapter:  
> I'm here tonight, I'm taking back what's mine  
> I can tell that you miss me  
> 'Cause your eyes give it away  
> We got an understanding  
> I know you can't resist me  
> So tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me
> 
> -Did You Miss Me?, Olly Murs


	3. Anthem Of The Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/Wd9te6ZQXpQ

Mycroft’s hand squeezed gently around the fingers of his younger brother. Sherlock had been in surgery for seven hours, and finally he was able to be here with him. Mycroft sat silently, his breaths rising and falling along the sound of the machine assisting the air in and out of Sherlock’s lungs.  
    It had only been perhaps ten minutes that they shared alone, before John was coming through the door of the private room and setting the coffee he had gone for only moments before on the end table. He didn’t even think to pull up one of the chairs from the corner, but reached for Sherlock’s hand and held it gently between his trembling fingers. Mycroft watched protectively, instinctively uneasy from the traumatic day.  
    ‘How-’ John began, but changed his approach, ‘ _Why_ did this happen?’ he asked, looking to Mycroft.  
The older Holmes breathed in heavily, the first time that his breathing had broken from the synchronous between he and Sherlock since he sat down. What was he to say? Maybe just exactly what had been burning him alive; what had never been absent from his mind once in the past seven hours.  
    ‘Because I failed,’ he said.  
    ‘Failed what? What in the... _Hell_ where you trying to do!?’ John tried to stay quiet, but that just made the deep explosion from his mouth more emotional, more violent.  
    ‘SAVE GREG!’ Mycroft shouted, the hours that he wanted to scream oozing from him, ‘SAVE MRS HUDSON! SAVE _YOU_ , EVEN THOUGH YOU HARDLY DESERVE IT!’ Mycroft situated himself again in his chair, ‘Now keep your whining to a minimum, if you could. Sherlock needn’t the negativity.’  
John’s body was useless between anger and confused guilt. All he could think was that Mycroft was a real piece of work, and even after he lashed out at him like facts were being dredged from his soul, John didn’t walk away feeling very enlightened to the situation. Vague bastard.  
   The hours rolled along, the ticking had crawled into John’s ears and found a place in his brain. He ran his hands over his temples, pulled his hair and sat back. Every few moments he kept looking at Sherlock’s long fingers, imagining that maybe he would see any amount of movement. Time and again it proved to be a childlike thought, but the possibility of a miracle guided him in retaining his sanity, before night fell and Mycroft’s voice, which had recollected itself to a firm place in his throat, sliced through the thick silence.  
    ‘You should leave...now,’ he said, with slight hesitation.  
    ‘I...Wait, are you serious? No. No, I’m not doing that.’ John had risen from his seat by now, his neck tight and a faint smile creeping up the sides of his lips, ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, his hand levelled in a gesture that he wanted the moment to remain nothing more than a civilised disagreement, ‘but he would want me here. He’s...’ John paused a moment and casually ran his closed fingers under his left eye. He didn’t find any tears there, though he expected to. But he had spent them already. ‘He’s my best friend; I’m not leaving him.’  
Mycroft wrapped his hand around John’s arm, and pulled him outside of the room.  
    ‘Perhaps I was too polite. It was not a request, Dr Watson,’ Mycroft went on, as he hurriedly nudged John along until they reached a doorway at the end of the hall, ‘Go away.’ Mycroft’s eyes sunk slowly into darkness as he spoke. John smiled, not intimidated in the slightest. Even if he had any fear of the man, he knew that no fear could weigh as heavily on his mind as his love for Sherlock weighed on his heart. He didn’t know how many beats were left for Sherlock’s heart, but he was going to hold onto him. He was going to feel each and every pulse, to the very last. If Sherlock had really, in some way, in _any_ way, given his life for him, this may be the closest he ever gets to thanking him.  
    John wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was so lax, so colourless, that he looked like a man who had never smiled in his life. His hand flinched upward towards the much taller man’s throat. He restrained himself, stepped back to a general standing position, but Mycroft still flinched backward.  
    ‘You are not doing that,’ John said, shaking his head, ‘He’s not yours to keep. To yourself.’  
    ‘I am his family, and for more reasons than that capable of keeping him from anyone I please.’  
John’s nostrils flared, ‘Don’t you dare threaten- if you try that, it will be the last of what I am sure are a long list of mistakes you have made, Mycroft.’  
Mycroft twisted his umbrella’s handle back and forth in his palm, ‘You have no idea.’  
John pinched the bridge of his nose, arms crossed as Mycroft continued to speak.  
    ‘Sherlock isn’t safe here. Moriarty is out there somewhere. There is no need for you to remain here, because he will be coming home with me. I am having a comfortable room fitted for hospice; I want him there by tomorrow evening at the latest.’  
John laughed slightly, but his body did not relax, ‘Why didn’t you just say that?’  
    ‘Because I don’t want you in my home. This is not an invitation.’  
John’s expression returned to a hard stone so quickly that Mycroft wasn’t completely sure that it had ever changed at all. Mycroft, of course, maintained no expression at all. He had meant what he had said and he would not be swayed from his final decision. And Mycroft took a deep breath as it was there, sudden and just, a smile followed by a fast fist to his face.  
  
    The door clicked open, and the sound of the steady cardiac monitor, and the ever ticking clock were accompanied by footsteps and a heavy sigh.  
    ‘There you are, My Dear,’ Jim cooed.  
He slid his fingers between Sherlock’s and smiled. It was an odd and satisfying feeling that Sherlock couldn’t stop him, couldn’t move away from him, couldn’t prevent their entwined bodies in any way.  
    ‘I have thrown away a beautiful choreograph, Sherlock,’ Jim said, ‘It was designed just for you, you know,’ Moriarty played with the slender fingers in his hand as he spoke, swirling his thumb over the soft tips, ‘It was a little unfortunate; but I had no choice, you see. You didn’t deserve it. Not after what I saw toda-’ Jim glanced up at the clock which said it was early morning already, ‘yesterday,’ he corrected.  
    ‘You didn’t think that I was that stupid, did you? Well, clearly you did...rude. As if I would actually think that big brother was cold enough to survive losing you.  
    For that matter, if I believed you were brave enough not to crawl under his wing. I had hoped to be surprised by Mycroft, and honestly, I expected some growth in you. I anticipated a conversation with a man of my own quality on that rooftop, not to be dismissed by two weak children, clinging to one another’s cleverness,’ Jim’s face twisted. He was disappointed. He had considered the entire speech in his head all evening, and knew that he was probably the only person in the room who could hear it, but still felt upset following the delivery. It had sounded so much more impactful, so much more genuine in his head. But rolling off his tongue it came as if he were reading a letter from an opinionated friend rather than speaking his own words.  
    He took Sherlock’s hand against his biceps violently, with a harsh quickness; leaned in and held him, breast to breast. He whispered into his ear, with plenty of warm breath.  
    ‘Was it wrong of me to make you dance, Sherlock? That’s no fun, is it? No, you’re like me; you’re a composer. How about I teach you to create, Sherlock. Create destruction.’  
  
Mycroft’s face and arms were brutally bruised, and no end came until he was driving his knee into John’s throat as hard as he could. He caught his breath as John slowly lost his own, and finally decided it was safe to let the soldier up. John breathed raggedly, rolling onto his side. Mycroft had no sympathy for the man who had just given him quite the pummelling himself. He leant over the shorter man and collected his umbrella from the floor.  
    ‘Y’re nau protet’ng ’im,’ John made out, he was barely comprehended between struggled breaths, ‘I’m not the one who did this to him,’ he said more clearly, coughing harshly between sentences, ‘you’re not the man to keep him safe.’  
    Mycroft clutched onto his loyal friend tightly. He had stopped for a moment, but was fast to focus back to his concern. He didn’t look to John Watson, and hurriedly left the hall. He was halfway to the front desk, to speak about whether it was yet safe for him to bring Sherlock home, when he heard a nurse directing a small group to his room frantically. Sherlock was in cardiac arrest.  
    John had gone to wash up. The water ran down his face, he let it drip and run along his arms, his chest; he could feel the soothing sting over bruises and split skin. It wasn’t the amount of comfort that he needed, but it kept him from smashing the mirror with his fists, so it was well enough. He dried himself and stepped out into the hallway, almost to be ran down by Mycroft. He was surprised to see Mycroft running. It seemed that he must do this rather often, based on how much he had seen him doing. It just wasn’t an activity that he easily pictured Mycroft even capable of. Far too posh, far too lazy, far too unbothered. But Mycroft had run with a savagery, almost primitively yesterday. He ran half like a predator, and half like prey. Like a man with hell hounds at the back of his heels. Like a mother into a nursery in flames. That’s how Mycroft had ran after Sherlock; like Satan was chasing after his soul. And this is how he was running again.  
    ‘What’s wrong?’ John asked, rushing to catch up. ‘Mycroft, what’s wrong!?’  
The door was swung open, the cardiac monitor singing John that familiar, still song in it’s shrill tone of death. Mycroft was breathing hard, John could hear him nearly crying. He didn’t do this. And Sherlock definitely hadn’t done it on his own, that simply wasn’t possible in his condition. So why was the bed empty?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrical inspiration for this chapter’s:
> 
> A tree of life in rain and sun  
> To reach the sky it's just begun
> 
> And as we came into the clear  
> To find ourselves where we are here  
> Who is the wiser to help us steer  
> And will we know when the end is near
> 
> -Age Of Man, Greta Van Fleet


End file.
